A wee shuffle

I thought I would refresh this whole space once I left NYC, but I've gotten a little antsy and my impatience got the best of me. With the weather cooling down, changes elsewhere (more on that soon), and a general feeling of blahness with *sparklingly, I wanted to make a move sooner rather than later, even if it means a fairly subtle one, given my lack of design/HTML coding skills.

But first I had to figure out exactly what I wanted to call this new place. Since my day job involves similar queries (what space can this "brand" own? why would anyone care about it? what's its reason for being?), I employed similar strategies to figure this out—I asked a few people what they think I write about and why they like reading and there was definitely a clear thread:

J/*sparklingly = a place filled with homemaking, simple pleasures, balancing city and country, how to indulge graciously and elegantly, tweaks for a gentler life, real/whole foods and living, plus a little snark. Which to me all mostly boiled down to my favorite thing to do ever:

Feather my nest.

I love making something prettier, cozier, homier and more welcoming. Whether it's my apartment, a hotel room when I'm traveling for work, my desk when I'm working at a client site for the day or even an hour, or a little nook at a cafe nearby for a weekend coffee. My thinking is consumed by ideas of how to make my surroundings sweeter, softer, more sacred—which goes for my physical surroundings as well as my physical self.

Thus was born a feathery nest.

But of course I'm still shy and prone to anonymity, so I needed another little handle to sign off with and use on Instagram and things. I created a rationale for *sparklingly before, but it really annoys me now, so a new one had to be made. This time, though, I decided to just use a nickname I already have (General J / Gen J / il Generale) thanks to my particular, some-say-bossy, ways, plus a little finessing to make it better encapsulate me (and my puritanical, modest, hostessing ways), hence ladygenj.

Everything will switch over later today / tomorrow, but just in case my ability to understand complicated code is less stellar than I imagine it to be, I'm posting this last post here on *sparklingly with a breadcrumb trail so you can still find me after today if your feeds and things don't automatically update:

site
http://www.afeatherynest.blogspot.com

feeds
RSS
Atom

readers
Feedly
Feedspot
Bloglovin'

I've also switched my social media accounts over to my new handle, so if you follow me on those, you'll notice my shares under a new name.

Hope to see you on the other side!

Xx,
J.

The notion of home

Now that we're back home after the most amazing of trips, bumpy re-entry included, I've realized I'm at the point where I'm completely sick of our apartment. I've lived in it so long that it's last refreshing was years ago, so the walls seem a bit crusty, the floors need refinishing, and the whole thing needs a good scrubbing. And everything about it now irritates me: the way the walls soak up cooking splatters and no amount of scrubbing seems to get rid of the telltale signs. Same goes for the bathroom walls and doors where dust combined with flying oils from my overzealous applications have created an impenetrable barrier.

Then there's the floor, a horrid parquet—I should say faux parquet—comprised of uneven pieces, meaning dust and wayward hair and fluff gets embedded around each splintery piece, making sweeping a futile exercise and walking barefoot painful. Not to mention the ear-splitting creaking that echoes every single step we take from March through November, thanks to the humidity. Speaking of humidity, it's impossible to keep the shower, especially the grout lines clean because of the dampness in the air (we're not quite at fall weather yet) and I'm so sick of cleaning so often only to have the whole place still feel dumpy.

And why is there an inch-long gap between the stove and the counter? Do you know how many crumbs and onion slivers and who knows what else have dropped into our own personal Grand Canyon? And have I mentioned our hyperactive smoke alarm? Anytime we barely sautée a bit of garlic in oil the damn thing goes off and we have to take our positions as door-waver, window-opener, frantic-pillow-beater and dish-coverer to disperse the hot air before the whole system starts spraying water every which way. You don't want to know the hysteria that ensues if God forbid one of us is alone and has to pull off all four with just two hands amidst the pelting whine.

I just want to leave everything behind and start fresh.

One year later

When I first decided to start writing this wee blog here, I had no intention of ever sharing it. I just wanted a little place to keep track of what I then hoped/thought would be my last year in NYC and play around with coding (I should say "coding"). I also thought it was only fair that after so many years of listening in to others share their stories, that I reciprocated, especially when it comes to people I've been following for years.

Right now, as far as I know, no one in my family (apart from R), nor people in my life here know about my corner of the Web—two friends that live far away do, as well as all the people I've "met" through the blog world, but that's it. And my reluctance to share is not because I write anything scandalous (as you know), but just because I started quietly and to be honest, after two aborted attempts previously, I didn't think it would stick around this long. So after thinking about it for a few weeks last year, I just powered up Blogger and gave it a go.

I didn't give much thought to the context or the "lens" through which I write (as you might have guessed from the somewhat flimsy name/address I post under). But now that it's lasted this long, perhaps it's time for a little dusting? A bit of updating and re-skinning? I've got some ideas, but haven't had a chance to think them through all the way, but perhaps in a few weeks (or, months) you'll find me in a new place. A place you'd be most welcome to join me.

But, I do have one teensy favor to ask of you.

Sicilia Selvaggia, Wild Sicily

"I'm so glad that I fell in love with a Sicilian. There's something about the uninhibited, but many-times-over-inhabited land that makes sense to me. The fiery spirits and fiery food, the wildness of the plains, the roughness of the rocky crags, the introvertedness of people living in small, remote hilltop towns where they only speak Ancient Greek, the hooded glances and double-voweled and -consonant'ed dialects that echo Arabic origins, the fierceness and protectiveness of a much-conquered people. I don't think I'd ever set foot in a place that I recognized as much as I did as when I first rode the night train from Reggio Calabria on the mainland to Messina, the port of entry into Sicily.

My American boy

Just under five years from when I first began compiling the paperwork for R's K-1 Fiance Visa to enter the U.S. to marry me, quite a few thousand dollars, a trip from the east coast of Sicily to the American Consulate in Naples for 2 days of interviews and medical exams, a one-way ticket from Catania to New York, one 2-year green card and a barely used 10-year green card and many, many documents, photographs, forms and biometrics appointments later, these ​United States of America have one more star-spangled citizen to dot their amber waves of grain and purple mountain majesties because my Sicilian / Swede took his oath this morning to become an American.

But before I could cry in my highly-emotional state as he repeated the words that made him a citizen of the U.S., I had to sweat.

Arancini Taorminesi and how I cook

{  Arancini, before  }

The first time I bit into an arancino it was a massive disappointment. I had finally arrived in Sicily via the overnight boat train from Reggio Calabria to Messina and then down the coastline to Taormina-Giardini Naxos before taking a bus up into the hilltop perch of Taormina proper.

The view, the streets, my goodness, the people!—it was all glorious, beautiful, magical.

But that first taste of Sicily in the form of an arancino obtained from the very first tavola calda my panicky, hunger-stricken eyes set upon, was oily, gummy, and burnt.

Years later I get a huge kick out of eating proper Sicilian, nay, Taorminesi, arancini made in my own house, by my very own Sicilian (procured on that initial trip). True, the view from my apartment isn't quite the same, but crunching on these rotund pockets of bliss without purchasing a plane ticket isn't too shabby, either.

Arancini take their name from arancia, the Italian word for "orange". These adorable, portly (and portable!) little balls of rice are filled with any number of things, depending on where you find yourself. They always have cooked rice and mozzarella/pecorino tucked inside, but the ingredients that come next vary—you might find ragù (tomato meat sauce) or béchamel or peas or eggplant or some combination of those, or something entirely different. Regardless of what's concealed within, arancini are true Sicilian street food, made to munch on while standing at a bar or a vendor's stall.

Other regions of Italy have similar balls of goodness, like Rome's suppli.

The arancini from R's hometown, though, are a wonder unto themselves, being filled with rice that's run through with pesto al pistachio, a heady pesto made from the famed pistachio of Bronte, near Mt. Etna. The nuttiness is spectacular.

But, they take a quite a lot of doing to create, especially at home with our very limited counter space, so it's not often that we have them. Thankfully, R has finally seen the beauty of making extra, so now he takes a portion of the formed arancini and wraps them for safekeeping in the freezer and we can enjoy his hard work for a few more weeks.

Which is how we came to be tucking into a plate of these this past Sunday evening.

{  Arancini, after with a handmade knit cotton napkin }

There was just enough for a flirty taste, so I tossed together a salad to accompany our dinner. The fridge was a little sparse, though, so I made do, which is how I cook. I'm not one to follow recipes—I typically get ideas and inspiration from them, but hardly ever wait until I have all the right ingredients, nor do I measure the ones I do have. I'm not afraid to substitute or estimate—sometimes it works out perfectly, but there have been some rather lackluster dishes to come out of my kitchen thanks to my lack of patience and unwillingness to follow someone else's directions.

That's okay, though—this salad was one of the winners: roughly chopped romaine + red onion marinated in an olive oil and white vinegar bath to mellow its sharpness + wedges of apricot + hefts of mozzarella + a few shreds of fresh chili + a generous grind of black pepper + a sprinkle of salt = the perfect accompaniment to the enveloping crunch of a well-made arancino.

Growing up Goan: homemade remedies & medicinal mixology

{  Typical Goan lunch @ my Mom's: Leg of vinegary-roasted lamb, mango salad and saffron rice  }

In my haste and excitement to share my rectified state-of-lush-ness, I completely forgot to actually tell you why some cocktails deserve to be treated (and enjoyed) like natural medicine. Eat your vegetables, yes, but drink your herbs and vitamins, too!

But first, a bit about how I grew up:

I'm a first-generation American born to immigrant parents that met at a party in Manhattan—oddly enough, they're actually from the same area (although perhaps not so odd, since the party was related to their common heritage). Like most children born in the 80's to foreigners, my parents were pretty determined to bring us up as American as possible, meaning that we were not spoken to in their common dialect (which upsets me to no end today), and we enjoyed a variety of foods (although non were typically "American", apart from the damn good burgers my parents grilled out on our deck. I didn't have peanut butter or macaroni and cheese until college!).

Probably 70% of what we ate at home was definitely Goan, or Goan-influenced, which really isn't so far from basic Mediterranean fare (Goan food, and  Goan dialects, are a hybrid of Portuguese and Indian). Actually, a lot of the flavors that are sprinkled throughout Goan food is really similar to Sicilian—both being influenced by water, Arabs, and tropical climates, so: lots of small-scale fish, almonds, pistachios and vinegar-pickled/cured vegetables and meat. Goan cuisine then veers stiffly away because it's heavy in pork and coconut, which of course aren't as common in Sicilian food.

The remaining 30% of our diet was greatly influenced by our extended family, travels, and the fact that my parents are both great cooks that like to experiment—so a few German dishes here, a couple of Southern Italian meals there, some flamboyant French dessert way back over there, etc.

Other than the majority of what we ate, the other thing that my parents were insistent on incorporating into our childhoods (whether for the sake of preservation or because their way just made more sense...or because we grew up without health insurance), was natural home remedies.

Have a high fever? No Tylenol for us. Instead we applied an onion compress (and of course cancelled any subsequent social engagements, because that pungent odor tends to linger in hair, especially long hair like mine). Stomach cramps or a chill? Cupping performed on the floor of our den (although I eloquently referred to it as "fire on my belly!", and only in the last 10 years did I realize this was an actual medical "procedure" performed throughout the world). Chest congestion? No Dayquil for us, but a Vicks application before bed and an Egg Flip on an empty stomach.

Me, then (again)

{ NYC from across the Hudson this weekend }

And so as not to be too much of a downer, here's another few snippets of my (formerly?) snarky self:

Monday, May 29, 2006 95N is NOT the Place to Scrimp Clearly I didn't learn anything the last time I purchased an inexpensive Greyhound ticket to NYC. Maybe next time I'll spring for Amtrak...or JetBlue, as I don't think I can take another trip with these characters: International Princess: Must be nice to be pampered and petted, and live the good life as a DC sorority girl slumming it up by taking the bus to NYC for the weekend. Did you really feel the need to spend the majority of the four hour bus trip discussing the merits and demerits of various celebrities' bone structures? Were my deathly glares and aggressive rustling of the NYT pages in your direction not enough to clue you in that you were REALLY PISSING ME OFF?! Heroic Bus Driver: He must have known I was in hell, so he kindly turned up the air conditioning ALL. THE. WAY. Not only were my ears bleeding, but my appendages were then frozen. Nice balance, no? But, luckily he got my heart racing again by having lengthy cell phone conversations with his buddies while driving a few tons of steel. Up 95. In. the. rain.

Sunday, June 27, 2006 Maintenance Know what's a really big pain in the ass? Personal maintenance. I mean really, do you know how much time a day I spend doing the bare minimum? After getting out of bed I have to brush my teeth, rinse my face, put on deodorant, go to the gym...then, come home, shower, again with the deodorant, spend (too much) time slathering pretty cream all over my various appendages, swipe my ears with a q-tip, slap on some moisturizer....then, after breakfast, again with the teeth brushing and putting on of makeup, perfume, clothes, jewelry, etc. It's like, enough already, right? And I'm not even someone high maintenance that's applying—I don't know, eyebrow gel—but even the minimalist approach is tiring! Then, when I come home from work I have to spend time making a healthy, vegetable/whole grain laden dinner, wash my dishes, make my coffee, rinse out the appliance, pack lunch for the next day, reset the espresso machine, put out breakfast. Enough is enough. And to think, all this stemming from me realizing I have to schedule my 6-month teeth cleaning.

Sunday, June 29, 2006 Adventures in Indian Dining Let me paint a little picture for you: I sit at an outdoor table waiting for friends to join me for dinner. The nice waiter comes over to ask if I'd like to order a drink while I wait. I politely decline, motioning that the water is fine. While minding my own business the following happens. Drunk Lecherous Man With Cigarette Dangling from Lips (while standing behind me): Are you Persian? Me (barely turning around): No. DLMWCDFL: Where are you from? Me: I'm Portuguese & Indian. DLMWCDFL: Like, East Indian? Me: No, I'm from the western part of India. DLMWCFDL: So not like Cowboys and Indians? Me: No, Indian as in from the country of India. DLMWCFDL: And from Brazil? Me: No, Portuguese as in from the country of Portugal. DLMWCFDL: Oh really? Like in that movie Moon River? [Edited to note in 2013 that I still don't know what movie he meant...] Me: (to myself) "WTF?!", (to waiter) Sir? Actually, I think I'll have a drink.

100

{ Buds & bubbles! }

And just like that, I'm at one hundred. After keeping my old, post-college blog alive for only 7 months and perhaps no more than 40 or so posts, I'm a little shocked that I made it this far.

Before deleting it I backed up the pages offline, and "flipping" through it now it's just as good as discovering one of those plastic, padlocked diaries little girls have. Some of my scribbling seems so  grownup, yet so incredibly naive. Like this, from almost exactly 7 years ago: 

Sunday, June 11, 2006 And you said, be still my love When I first heard Colin Hay's "Waiting For My Real Life to Begin" three years ago, I felt sure it was my song. Like most, when I get a whiff of certain scents, or hear the faint chords of a familiar song I'm instantly transported to a specific moment in time. But this song doesn't take me to a point in my life, rather it seems to define my life. My constant search for...something. "Any minute now my ship is coming in I'll keep checking the horizon And I'll stand on the bow And feel the waves come crashing Come crashing down, down, down on me" This morning I walked through my door at five o'clock as the sky began to lighten. I changed from my dress of high expectations and sat on my bed in my pajamas facing the glass door. I pulled the blinds and the door open and sat, thinking. Watching, as the night retreated and I was left alone to watch the day begin. "And you said,"Be still, my love Open up your heart Let the light shine in" Don't you understand? I already have a plan I'm waiting for my real life to begin" Why does it seem that nothing ever works out the way I thought it would? Leaving school one has so many dreams and ideas about what life will hold, and a year out, nothing has morphed into what I expected. Of course, I can't sit and uselessly blame the gods, I'm sure part of the problem is me, but how much?  "When I awoke today suddenly nothing happened But in my dreams I slew the dragon And down this beaten path And up this cobbled lane I'm walking in my own footsteps once again" How unfulfilled can one person be? How many times do I have to sit and quietly hold my jealousy in as I watch friends live their dreams? How often do I lose people close to me to their romantic partners? "And you say,"Just be here now Forget about the past Your mask is wearing thin" Let me throw one more dice I know that I can win I'm waiting for my real life to begin" After a long night filled with too many introductions, too many dissapointments, and too many bouts of jealousy I realized I was too weak to subject myself to a morning of torment. I wiped my eyes and pulled the covers over me. "And you say,"Be still, my love Open up your heart Let the light shine in" Don't you understand? I already have a plan I'm waiting for my real life to begin"

Funny how some things change, and some things really never do.

I wonder how it will be to look back at this place 7 years from now. Where I'll be, what I'll be doing, what I'll be thinking of...

Mamela

{ The Lion King Musical  |  via  }

One Easter some 20-odd years ago, I planned an elaborate Easter Egg Hunt for my family in our backyard and woods (benefit of growing up in Virginia: you can live at the end of a cul-de-sac on an acre of land). Before we headed outside to follow my Harriet-the-Spy-type-clues, I remember sitting at the kitchen table with a red top on and my hair half tied up with a white ribbon pulling goodies out of my Easter basket until I got to the VHS tape of The Lion King. Do you remember those thick, white-edged plastic cases from Disney? They always reminded me of baby chew toys.

+ + +

I watched The Lion King regularly, faithfully, taking photographs while the movie was paused so I could develop them and carry them around. I had all the lyrics and words memorized, the gestures, the glances, the dance moves. It was all stored in my mind, ready to reproduce, like a party trick. There was something mesmerizing to me about the heart of the story, the rhythms of the African-influenced songs, and of course, the animals.

+ + +

But, this two-decade cherishing of a movie about a lion cub's life in no way prepared me for the onslaught of emotions I felt when I finally (finally!) sat down at the Minskoff Theater in Times Square to see the Broadway Musical this past weekend. I kid you not, when the show began and these gorgeous dancers / actors recast as exotic and elegant savannah animals began prancing down the aisles with their puppet machinations, I lost it. Positively lost it. I began crying and could not stop (well, until I started laughing, because there are some very funny scenes).

The pageantry of colors, amazing staging (seriously: the stampede scene was ingenious!), Zulu chants and an almost Gospel-like chorus was just so breathtakingly beautiful. It made me feel like a child again—in the best possible way. Can you remember what it felt like the first time you beheld something we take for granted now (like, ice cream or a parrot or a skyscraper)? That's what I felt like the whole time.

I still have chills thinking about it.

New York—you were good to me this weekend. Seeing The Lion King was no doubt, one of the best, most wonderful experiences I've had in this perversely beautiful city (right up there with picnics under the Brooklyn bridge, cocktails on a rooftop with an expansive view of the city at sunset, sailboat trips around the NY Harbor, etc.). Let's do it again some time, okay?

PS. Mamela means "listen" in Zulu and is featured in one of my favorite numbers. Here's a clip:

Libraries: both literary and libationary

{ via }

Have I told y'all about my fascination with and love for libraries? Plop me in a library and you can leave me there for hours.  My small, fold-y wallet (the kind that if you put cash in and flap it open and closed it "locks" the bills in behind an elastic band) only has room for 4 cards to be shown and 8 cards to fit, and my NYPL card with the beautiful lion is right on top.

While I tend to read e-books more than physical now, only for ease of travel and to indulge in bedtime reading after R has gone to sleep, I still check out real books from my local branch every few weeks and cover them religiously, of course. But the other day I realized I had been admiring my library from afar—it's on a charming side street in SoHo and was just recently built and added to the network, so it's gorgeous inside: all gleaming steel and warm glossy wood and light streaming in everywhere. The architect did this crazy beautiful staircase that cuts through the floors and filters light to almost every corner—and I know almost all of that from "following" the Mulberry Street Branch Library on Facebook, despite being in the neighborhood and walking through their front doors pretty regularly.  I usually just zip up to the brick building, through the front door, grab my books from the hold desk right by the checkout counter and scooch back out.

I'd never actually descended into its literary depths, which seemed ridiculous. So I made sure to change all that last week. I bypassed the hold shelf when I walked in and skipped down the broad steps to the floors beneath, the first being the children's room. How is it that the kid's area has the same scent in every library? When I spotted one of Laura Ingall Wilders' books on a nearby shelf, I wondered how much I'd be missed from the office if I sank into a pouf for a few hours with Ma and Pa and Laura and Mary.

+ + +

When I was younger I would ride my bike out of our neighborhood after swim practice and past the 7-11 to the library. I had a white metal basket attached to the front of my shiny turquoise bike that I'd fill to the brim with books for the week. I wouldn't even take the basket into the house when I rode home, I'd plop myself under "my" tree on our side yard for a few hours first.

+ + +

In college my friends knew I'd disappear to the slightly musty "stacks" of the oldest library on campus to study—no modern, cold library for me. I wanted to be near the books in my little wooden cubby with brittle maps and portfolios and scrolls at my fingertips, even if I had no need of them. I just liked knowing I could look if I wanted.

All through college I even worked for the Office of the University Librarian. Her role was to curate the University's collections, handle donations and acquisitions, and host shiny events with donors and esteemed guests—I loved it. I was being paid to putter around books and work on their behalf (plus those events with the fancy cheese and delicacies were part of the deal).

+ + +

Even as an adult with my e-books and salary from a non-libary job and not a racerback swimsuit in sight, I seek out libraries.

I had heard about the Nomad Hotel just north of Madison Square Park and its amazing dining rooms and bars. I mean seriously, just click here and look at its rooftop restaurant. Doesn't that look like Neal Caffrey's apartment on White Collar?

Anway, beautiful as that is, what I was obsessed with was the Library. A place with real books (I think the Ace Hotel has a similar set up but its books are fake—!) and a spiral staircase and elegantly-plied libations is basically my happy place.

I arranged to meet R after work last Friday, but the place is so amazingly fabulous that there was a wait for the bar which led to a wait for the Library! The bar is set up against a back wall behind the restaurant, and buffered on one side by the kitchen and the other by the Library. But, you can't reserve the Library—you have to put your name down at the bar. But the bar itself was already so packed that we had to wait in the hotel lobby! We lasted 20 minutes before we decided to come back during the week (bonus though: Michael J. Fox was waiting next to us! Well, he waited for a second in the lobby and then of course he was escorted right in).

Don't worry, cozy couches and weathered books and brandy snifters. I'll be back.

{ The Library at the Nomad Hotel via }

Some tweaks

{ Admiring my anti-winter colors a few weeks ago }

So here's the thing, even with all the goodness I've been adding into my daily life, I haven't quite experienced all the results I wanted (namely: more energy and continuously clear skin). At the same time as I've been thinking about this, I've been spending my weekends working on a side project that has me reading/familiarizing myself with the wellness philosophies of Kris Carr/Crazy Sexy Wellness and Dr. Mark Hyman/Functional Medicine. (Randomly amazing that I—finally—get to read about things I'm interested in for work, no?).

With all these thoughts jumbled about in my head, I decided there are a few more small changes I can make that might up my energy, clear my skin, and help me take better care of myself. So here's what I'm thinking of doing:


Play with the balance of my diet:
My diet is almost entirely made up of: vegetables (organic when needed and affordable; local when possible),  whole milk/non-homogenized dairy products from happy cows, meat from humanely, non-toxically bred animals, eggs from pastured chickies, and lots of nuts/seeds/coconut oil/spices.

+ But, I'm thinking one thing that might be a good way to experiment would be to dial back the dairy products a teensy bit.

+ And, add in even more vegetables (which would in effect make me eat less meat).

My thinking here is: I'm still a little lethargic and I still get a few inflammations on my face now and then. These could be the product of stress, a dairy intolerance, or not enough vegetables, so perhaps weighing my diet more towards the vegetable side and a wee bit off the dairy/meat side might make a difference. (Definitely not removing anything, just playing with the balance).

Not a first

I first learned about this whole "blog thing" in 2004. I was about to spend the summer in NYC for an internship and had been Googling phrases like "living in NYC" and "summer in NYC", etc., and came across this site that organized local blogs along the MTA subway path (which is pretty awesome). I began clicking through and reading about the lives of strangers and loving the secretive glimpse into their doings...except not secretive at all, since they put it out there (am very much into voyeurism, but the non-shady kind, which is why I love pictures/posts about things like "What's in my bag", or "My day: hour by hour"). I'm completely fascinated by how other people live, their random tidbits, odd habits, jealousy-inducing trinkets, and organizational strategies (I so do LOVE a post about organization!).

So, anyway, that's how I began bookmarking blog sites (this was before RSS feeds) and checking in to see what these people were up to. After I graduated from college (a year after that summer in NYC, and a few weeks before I went off to Italy for a month by myself—that same vacation where I met my now-husband, R), I decided to start up my own little blog called If I Only Had a Red Vespa—there were a few posts about closing the college chapter of my life, the romance that started in Italy, about why I wasn't happy in the DC area/with my job, the things I wanted for and from my life, but the whole thing was clouded over with this sense of unhappiness and unfulfillment. And even though I wrote it anonymously, with only three real-life friends knowing about it, I think it was sometimes stilted, and not really all "me" and I grew tired of it. In all it lasted about a year, but I did get to know a few great people through it, and still stay in touch with a few women via Facebook/Twitter/Instagram—and have even met up with two of them.

A few years passed, with me not writing anywhere but still reading blogs—some old, some new, and I decided to try it again. Only this time I decided to put a particular "spin" on it: writing about how we (R and I) infuse our American life with bits of our other cultures (Italian/Swedish). Only problem is that since I'm the American, I would have to rely really heavily on my husband for content (since my ethnic background isn't really that big a part of my culture), so Zagara di Sicilia quickly fizzled out and I deleted it without even saving it (as I did my first blog).

{ Found somewhere online years ago—my (dream) little red Vespa }

Which brings me to this one.

My first blog was a bit of past perfect because I sometimes felt myself writing trying too hard to make things perfect or despairing too much over why things weren't perfect, while the second was definitely future conditional because it was too focused on the cultures I was adopting and where we might eventually be, versus where I actually was in the moment.

I'm hoping third time's a charm and this little space will let me be me.

I want a place to capture the small moments that are happening as they happen, to have a record of changes that will be coming, and connect with (blog) friends in a more meaningful way. I've always felt a little shoddy about peeking into other worlds and never sharing any of my own. And there are so many things I want to explore or challenge myself to learn and I want this to be a place where I do a little of that. The one thing that's still the same, though, is I'm anonymous (at the moment).

So, here's to writing in the now, neither perfect nor progressive nor conditional, just present.

Turning the page

{ An autumnal table }

Much as I love the month of September (not only because it's my birthday and when a new school year starts—even though I'm no longer in school, but because I believe that everything starts afresh in the Fall, not on January 1st), there’s something sweet about October 1st. Maybe because it falls on a Monday this year and seems fresher? More crisp?

Regardless, I’m glad it’s here, if for no other reason that the subways are on their way to being more bearable and the A/Cs will soon be shut off (crossing fingers for no more descents into sauna-like conditions post-shower and pre-work and that yucky water will no longer drip on me from above as I pass below window A/C units).

Also, I can finally drag my knitting bag out, which has been holed up behind the couch all summer, and now drinking yummy tea, besides being comforting/delicious, keeps my fingers warm and soothes the throat! I’ve been thinking about ways I can commemorate what may be (if all goes according to plan) my last fall in NYC/the US (for the foreseeable future). Day trips upstate/Hudson Valley? More apple-y/squash-y dishes? More leaf-crunching walks? All of the above are in order, I think.

. . .

I’m tempted to start off just like that, but whenever I come across a new blog I always scroll back through the archives to the first entry to get the “How it all started” story, so it would be fairly sneaky of me to try and get away from doing it for myself.

So, here’s me in a nutshell: Born in NYC, grew up in VA, had a brief hop in the D.C. area post college, started a multi-year transatlantic courtship with R, a Sicilian/Swede whom I met on vacation in Italy, moved back to NYC, married my Sicilian/Swede (twice!) and have now decided to move back to Europe next year.

Not Sicily, mind you, which most people assume I would do, but the gloriously cold, organized, efficient, minimalist, sensible, soothing Stockholm! (It should be noted that I am notoriously always hot, have little patience–hence can’t deal with inefficiency/bureaucracy, and work in branding/advertising, so a major city is a necessity, which puts Stockholm miles above Sicily in my affection). PS. More on my love of Stockholm/Sweden.

Plus, if we ever want to start a family/have a dog without making drastic career changes, we need to leave NYC. And there’s nowhere else in the U.S. we'd like to live right now and I do want to live abroad at some point in my life, but don’t want to go to R’s hometown in Sicily, so Stockholm it is!

Other things to know about me?

+ I’m a first-generation American (of Portuguese/Indian descent).

+ The color purple (and its relatives), golden retrievers, anything ridiculously spicy, and all things cozy and candle-lit make me happy.

+ It's not that I'm anti-social, it's just that I like time alone or in (very) small groups. Huge parties give me hives, but intimate dinner parties, those make me super happy.

+ I don’t like horror movies (but love fast-paced international thriller spy-type ones).

+ I'm in the natural, sometimes raw, wholesome foods camp (which for me means steering clear of gluten and sugar. The former for a sensitivity and the latter for a desire to avoid toxins, which I feel sugar is, and which I suppose gluten is, too—at least to me). If you're interested in other things I do, all in the name of being gentler to myself, this post's for you.

+ I am enamored with Anne Shirley and Lorelai Gilmore.

+ I talk very, very fast (hence kinship with Lorelai).

 + My husband says I eat books because I zoom through them so fast. You can imagine he was thrilled when I carried a thousand-page book on Cleopatra's life with me on our honeymoon. Here's what I'm reading now.

+ I can be a bit bossy...and also very feisty. Poor R.

+ I like makings things with my hands—be it food, my own stationery, knitted doodads and other crafty bits and bobs (which doesn't preclude me from buying pretty things).

+ I think I like writing...but not actual writing. I love the IDEA of keeping a written journal, but I think I’ll have better luck in the digital realm vs. creamy paper and inky pen (which sound delicious in theory).

+ And the name? Well, I have a thing for sparkly things—wit, wine, water, jewels, lights, to name a few.